


A Time of Darkness

by HaMandCheezIts



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: 1985, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate 1985 (Back to the Future), Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe, Bail, Boarding School, Cemetery, Creditors, Dog bite, Europe, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jail, Loan Sharks, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Mother-Son Relationship, Movie: Back to the Future Part II, POV First Person, Parent Death, Penthouse Apartment, Scars, Siblings, Step-parents, Switzerland, parole, plastic surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26657233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaMandCheezIts/pseuds/HaMandCheezIts
Summary: It's the Alternate 1985. After being overpowered and knocked out by adult Biff Tannen’s adult goons, Marty awakens in the bedroom on the twenty-seventh floor of Biff’s Pleasure Paradise (Hotel and Casino). There he finds a demoralized version of his mother is married to a successful, rich, and powerful Biff – and not to George McFly. Marty, incredulous that his mother left George in order to marry Biff, demands to know where his father is. Lorraine tells her son the distressing details.This story entails the (missing) scenes that follow.
Relationships: Dave McFly & Linda McFly & Marty McFly, Lorraine Baines McFly & Marty McFly, Lorraine Baines McFly/Biff Tannen, Marty McFly & Biff Tannen
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	A Time of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story was inspired by the scene in BTTF II where Marty is running frantically through the dark cemetery, searching for his father’s grave (although this story ends right before that scene). The title is also a nod to a book I loved as a child, called _This Time of Darkness,_ by H.M. Hoover. It’s a young adult book, about people who reside in an underground city to avoid the toxic, deadly world above ground. It sounds like a pretty depressing book, and parts of it are (that’s the point of the book), but it is actually really good. All of H.M. Hoover’s books are great. If you have the means, check them out. You might have to search in a library, because I’m not sure if they’re in print anymore. 
> 
> I'm also making my Marty somewhat smarter and more aware than the movie would suggest. Since he knew he'd changed his life and the lives of those around him by his actions in 1955, I don't think it's too unbelievable that Marty would figure out that this crazy, unrecognizable Hill Valley might be a wayward creation of time travel. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Back to the Future,_ Marty McFly (or any of the McFly family members), Lorraine Baines McFly (or any of the Baines family members), Biff Tannen, Doctor Emmett L. Brown, or any other related characters.
> 
> I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.
> 
> -ck

**Saturday, October 26th, 1985-A**

**11:49 P.M.**

**Hill Valley, California**

“Marty. . . George – your father – is in the same place he’s been for the last twelve years: Oak Park Cemetery.”

When the woman who was theoretically my mother uttered those words, my first reaction was denial. It was so abrupt and intense that, without realizing it, I was on my feet and shouting down at her.

“You’re lying! That’s not true!” It couldn’t be. God knows why my mom would lie about something like that. But I was starting to understand that this was not my mom, and this was not my reality. Although I didn't really understand much else. Maybe people in this “Hell” Valley _did_ lie about things like people being dead for twelve years.

 _Twelve years. . ._ That would mean I was five when he died. A lot of my first memories were centered around Kindergarten; I didn’t remember too much from when I was younger than four or five. How could I even remember my dad, if he’d died when I was that young?

No. Wait. This wasn't my reality. The George McFly that - died - was the father of _this_ reality’s Marty. The one that was supposedly in Switzerland. _My_ dad was alive and well, in the _real_ 1985.

So why did my stomach drop, and my eyes become tight and blurry? A sense of hopeless despair washed over me.

What had we done? What had Doc and I done, to create this terrible reality? _How_ had we? I had to find Doc, had to get to his lab, so we could figure out how to _fix_ it.

What if we couldn’t fix it? Jesus, what if his lab doesn't exist in this reality and I _can't_ find him? Would that mean I was. . . stuck here? That this would become my reality, my life? I thought about the television show I'd watched with Doc in 1955, and in my head I heard Ralph Edwards intone: _"Marty McFly - This is your life!"_

My “mom” was looking up at me – this surgically-altered, lewdly-dressed, jewel-covered, beaten-down caricature of my mother, and her eyes were sorrowful and compassionate, and

_aw christ_

those were _her_ eyes. Even with all of the unfamiliar differences, she still had the same eyes . . .

My knees gave out, and I was on the marble step next to her again. She reached out for me, and I didn’t move away. Damn it, but I needed some comfort. At that moment I didn’t care that the woman embracing me smelled like alcohol (hell, I was used to that) and had frizzy permed hair and boobs that were probably harmfully large. I let her hug me and I ducked my head down against her shoulder (but turned outward, I had no desire to view her fabricated breasts) and soon we were both crying.

She pulled away first, cupping my chin in her hands and lifting a trembling hand to stroke my hair, just like she (no, not her, _Mom_ ) used to do when I was a kid and I’d be scared or upset. I was both of those now, and I closed my eyes, sniffling.

“Honey, I know you were only four, and it was all so confusing . . . but you must remember the funeral. Don’t you?"

 _Shit_. I was _**four**_ years old when my dad died?

But how would that have worked, if it was twelve years ago? Was I sixteen in this reality? Or maybe he died right before I turned five. . .

The morbid questions spooked me, and I shook my head, shuddering. My “mom” nodded sadly, interpreting my physical response as an answer to her question about my alleged funeral memories. “Maybe you were too young to remember," she mused, "or you blocked it out. And it has been a while since we talked about George. With you gone so much. . . “

I cringed at the accusatory tone. I had a feeling that even if the “other” Marty wasn’t currently in a foreign boarding school, he still might not be at home. Why would he want to be, with his domineering step-dad Biff in charge? Even the asshole's cronies seemed to dislike me ( _other Marty_ ) as much as Biff did, seeing as how they did his bidding to the point of knocking me ( _him_ ) over the head on a regular basis. My “mom” had said _“They must’ve hit you over the head hard this time.”_ Jeez, she knew how they treated her son, and let them get away with it? She saw how Biff sucker-punched me, but at the first idea of “cutting off” her kids, she lost any sense of self-respect and went kowtowing back to him. Was I the only one who thought that was hypocritical? It was okay for Biff to injure her son, as long as he supported him?

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone, Ma,” I said. “I didn’t want to be. I don’t like you being alone here with him – and I don’t care if he pays for my school or not.” I was improvising, but I partially believed what I was saying - I _didn't_ want her staying with Biff. “I don’t need to be in some fancy Switzerland boarding school. I’m going to be eighteen soon – I don’t even need to be in school – “

“Don’t you say that!” she exploded. “You saw what happened to your brother after he dropped out of school!” I had seen what had happened to Dave, although I didn't know how he'd ended up following the paths of both my alcoholic mom and my jailbird uncle. For some reason I thought there was more behind it than him just dropping out of school, but that wasn’t really the issue. “Mom, you don’t have to worry about me, I won’t end up like that – “

She interrupted me again. “You won’t end up like David _or_ Linda. They’re. . . Things have been bad for them. It’s this place – “ She waved a hand around; I wasn’t sure if she was indicating the penthouse suite, or the whole city. “Your brother and sister needed a little extra help. You have to know that’s why I let your father force me to stay – “

“Don’t call him that, Mom! He’s _not_ my father!”

“But he is my husband, for better or for worse.” _For worse, Ma, for a **lot** worse. _“And he’s taken care of us, he’s supported Linda and David, even when things went so wrong for them. He paid David’s bail, and Linda’s bills. . . “

I didn’t press for details; I didn’t think I needed them to know what had most likely happened. _Alternate Biff’s influence is probably the reason why this reality's Dave is a drunken bum – Dave would’ve been ten when our **(his)** Dad died, and I bet he had a really hard time accepting Biff as a pale substitute. And this reality's Linda – well, whatever problems she’s got, I bet Biff’s behind those too_.

Alternate Mom was still talking, and I almost missed her next comment. “Biff took care of all of us," she repeated, "when no one else would. I was a single mother with three young children, and he was the only one who offered to help.”

 _Yeah, and what did you have to give up in trade for that help?_ It wasn’t hard to see, from her appearance and demeanor, as well as from the drink back in her hand, which she’d briefly set at her side when she’d hugged me.

“I don’t believe Biff was the only one who could help, Mom,” I said, indignant. There were my grandparents – McFly and Baines – plus Mom’s sisters and brothers. From Biff’s earlier comment, it sounded like Joey was in jail (as usual) – but there was Uncle Toby and Uncle Milton. . . “What about your family, Mom, and Dad’s parents?”

She looked at me carefully again, the way she had looked at me after I'd asked where my real dad was. “Marty, your father’s parents passed away long ago,” she said slowly. “After they moved up north, they died in that terrible traffic pile-up.“ She shook her head, looking away from me toward the opposite wall, but I don’t think she was really seeing anything. “I always thought, if they hadn’t left Hill Valley, they wouldn’t have been on that highway when that happened. But they did move away – they felt so . . . betrayed, I think. By me.” She took a gulp of her drink, emptying the tumbler. I expected her to get up and refresh it, but she continued talking. “When I started seeing Biff, they were very upset, and then when I married him. . . Well, they thought I was disrespecting their son. George’s parents knew how Biff had always been infatuated with me, and hadn’t treated me well, and how your father – George – ‘saved’ me from Biff. “

“’Saved’ you?” I echoed. Might that story be the same, even in this dystopian reality? I wondered when everything had gone wrong – Biff taking over the town and polluting it with toxic and human garbage, the school being burnt to the ground, my brother becoming a drunkard and my mother becoming Biff’s “trophy” wife. . . Had we _(they)_ been a happy family once, before everything had hit the fan? Had this reality’s George McFly stood up to Biff on the night of the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance, ensuring that happy existence, no matter how brief it might have been?

If the story of the night of the dance was the one I had witnessed, this version of my mother wasn’t telling. “Oh, Marty, it’s not important,” she said to my inquiry, “just that Biff was interested in me and I wasn’t interested in him, and George set him straight.” She stood then, using my shoulder to push herself up, and toddled over to the bar. She grabbed a bottle almost randomly (from my perception) and slopped some amber-colored liquid into her glass. Brandy, maybe, or whiskey. Then she ambled back to my side, sitting gracefully onto the step without spilling a drop of her drink. She was about to speak when she blinked at me, and smiled almost bashfully.

“Did you want a drink, honey? I think there’s some of that imported beer you like, in the mini-fridge under the bar.”

I was speechless for a moment. I wasn’t old enough to drink legally, and even though my mom (in one of my realities) had used alcohol as a crutch probably as much as this version did, my parents had typically discouraged me from underage drinking – they sure as hell hadn’t offered me beer, imported or otherwise. But then I realized that my age probably didn’t make a difference here – whether it was in this Hill Valley, or in this penthouse suite that was apparently my sometime home ( ** _other_** _Marty’s home_ ).

“Uh, no. . . No, Ma, I’m good.”

She pressed on. “Biff won’t notice. He doesn’t drink beer much, and usually it’s just domestic. I think only Match drinks the imported, and he’s always had a soft spot for you – he wouldn’t let your father know that you’d had a bottle or two.”

I grimaced, both at her calling Biff my “father” and at the mention of Match supposedly liking me. “Was he the one that knocked me out when they grabbed me downstairs?” I asked humorlessly.

She missed my sarcasm. “Oh, no, that would have been 3-D, he usually carries a blackjack.” She snorted, and I thought she’d make some comment about how Biff’s bodyguards were so reckless with her son's health, but no. “They won’t respond when I call them their legal names,” she said instead, “I’ve stopped trying.”

“I don’t want anything, Mom,” I sighed. She nodded, then gulped noisily at her drink. I picked up the conversation again. “But _your_ family Mom – you can’t tell me none of them could’ve helped us!”

“My family couldn’t help themselves, Biff made sure of that!” She took another healthy drink. “He knew the only way I’d marry him was if I had nowhere else to turn. . . He chipped away at my family, piece by piece. First my parents lost the house, then Milton’s wife took the kids and left, and Toby, he. . .” she turned away, stifling a sob, then grasped her glass with both hands and took a fortifying drink, nearly emptying the fresh refill. “After Toby was gone, my sisters disowned me.”

I had the terrible sense that this reality’s Uncle Toby had killed himself, and that made my despair well up again, causing my throat to constrict. Uncle Toby was probably my favorite of my mom’s siblings; he and I had similar tastes in music, and we’d often discuss bands and singers and songs and albums, engaging in conversations that the rest of the family couldn’t decipher. I despised this Biff’s persistence and ingenuity, marveling at the damage he’d wrought just to get his clutches on Lorraine Baines McFly.

“Why do we have to rehash this, Marty?” Alternate Mom said irritably, breaking into my thoughts. She shook her head, resentment creasing her heavily made-up brow. “I almost liked it better when you were too angry to talk to me.”

The "Dave" I’d run into had mentioned that. Some odd statement about me not being on speaking terms with this not-Mom. “Humor me, Mom, okay?” I pleaded. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Don’t you know it’s better when you’re not here?” She slammed her glass to the floor, making me wince. Miraculously, the glass didn’t break – it was thick-cut crystal, probably worth a fortune. The remainder of the alcohol did splash out, and I looked at the spill, oddly transfixed. My eyes were tight again, and I blinked a few times, trying in vain to stop the tears.

I wanted so bad to leave that gaudily-decorated excuse for a home.

I was rubbing angrily at my eyes when not-Mom "tsked," then began to stroke my hair again in an effort to calm me. “Marty – _baby_ – you have to get out of here. I thought Switzerland was far enough away, I didn’t think you’d come back . . .” She looked around cautiously, as if afraid someone might overhear. “Biff’s always been threatened by you, even when you were a little thing – God knows why. I know you hate the boarding schools, but it’s the only way to keep you safe from him. Thank God Biff thought it was all his idea – if he knew that keeping you away is what I wanted, he’d find some way to make you stay here. Get you arrested, like he did with David, or find someone to make you indebted to, like he did with Linda.”

Something clicked. This was why she had bowed down to Biff, even after he’d slugged me, after his guard-dogs had knocked me over the head. If he didn’t pay to keep me _(other Marty)_ in boarding schools, I’d _(he'd)_ be stuck here in Hill Valley, like this reality’s Linda and Dave. "Mom" was doing what she could for them, but if Linda’s problems were anything like Dave’s, they were probably past saving. But it sounded like this version’s Marty still had a chance.

“I don't want you alone with him, Mom,” I said again, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “How can I leave when he – when he treats you like he does?”

She actually smiled a little. “Marty, I’m used to it. And it’s not all bad. If I don’t argue with him, especially when he’s been drinking. . . If I agree to his little whims and desires, he can be decent.”

“When? If you’re drunk all the time? Is that that how you tolerate him?”

She raised her hand, and I automatically flinched, even though I wasn't expecting anything other than a threat. Apparently the flinch didn't sway her. She slapped me hard on the cheek and I actually slid down one of the slippery steps, not expecting the force of the strike or the pain. I lifted my hand to my smarting cheek, dismayed to feel tears welling in my eyes. I wasn’t sure if the tears were from the slap or the fact that my "mother" had hit me. My mother had _never_ hit me.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry!” she cried, lowering herself down to my step and reaching for me. I flinched again, my hand still on my cheek. “Let me see,” she implored, pulling gently at my hand. I reluctantly let her inspect my face, trying not to gasp as she ran a hand down my cheek, her long red fingernails scraping against the sore spot. “It’s not too bad – I can get you some ice – “

I shook my head. “Forget it," I muttered, "I’m okay.”

“I can’t believe I hit you,” she moaned, still examining my face. Then she suddenly became quiet and backed away, staring at me with startled eyes. “What – How did you – Where are you scars?”

_Scars?_

“Scars,” I repeated, hoping she’d offer more information without me having to ask like an idiot.

She grabbed my chin, turning my head back and forth, her eyes wide as she scrutinized me. “They’re . . . gone,” she whispered. “How?”

“Uh. . .” I swallowed, my eyes looking around nervously. “Well, um. . . They healed?”

She laughed indelicately. “Marty, I’m not an idiot. They’d healed as much as they could. Maybe if Biff would've let me take you to a plastic surgeon right away instead of having a doctor friend of his stitch you up, but he didn’t want it getting out that his dog had bit you. . .” She abruptly grabbed my right wrist, turning it over in her hand to stare down at my unblemished forearm. “My God,” she breathed. "Gone!"

My pulse was racing and I was feeling a little sick to my stomach, trying to come up with an explanation for something I didn’t quite understand. I grabbed onto her earlier words. “A plastic surgeon!” I blurted.

“What?” She was lowering my arm carefully, as if it was made of glass.

“I saw a plastic surgeon! In Switzerland!” I gulped, staring at not-Mom to see her reaction.

“You – how would you pay for that? Biff pays the school directly for you tuition and books, and the little mad money I send wouldn’t have been enough to pay for something like that.”

I nodded and shook my head at the same time. “No, it was a kind of a study. You know, like how you need participants?” She narrowed her eyes at me, so I blundered on. “Uh, my roommate at school, you know, his dad is like this really famous big-shot plastic surgeon, all over Europe, and he was working on a new kind of way to fix old scars, and his son – my roommate – sort of talked me into doing the trial. . . I figured the guy could try it on my arm first, ‘cause if it didn’t work it wouldn’t be a big deal, you know, since it was just my arm and it was already scarred. . . And then when it _did_ work, I let him do my face.” I swallowed again, and forced a smile.

"And your ear?" 

_My ear, too?_ I was seething, wondering how young I _(other Marty)_ had been when I'd _(he'd)_ gotten mauled by some damn dog that had apparently belonged to Biff. "Yeah, my ear, too, Mom," I said, with that same fake smile. “I think I’m gonna be in some kind of medical journal or something, the doctor's going to use my case to prove that his new procedure works, and try to get more funding and stuff, so it can be offered to people who can’t afford it. Like burn victims or car crash victims or. . . whatever.” I trailed off, shrugging lamely.

Instead of questioning my babbling explanations, not-Mom’s face lit up in joy. “That’s wonderful, Marty!” she exclaimed, and embraced me. Then, holding me out at arm’s length, she gazed at me proudly. “You look so good! So much younger! I don’t know why I didn’t notice before!”

 _Alcohol?_ I thought snidely. Although, it was entirely possible that it was because my face had been puffy from sleeping _(being unconscious)_ and from crying.

And I’d been crying because of Dad. Because she’d told me Dad was dead.

I brushed her hands from my arms, quickly rising. “It’s been good seeing you Mom, but I really gotta go. I have to – I have to find someone.”

She rose slowly, looking at me with painfully sad eyes. “Yes. You should go," she agreed. "Your fath- Biff - wanted you gone before he got back up here.”

 _My father._ Before I even tried to locate Doc, I had to find my father. I had to find George McFly.

I faced this reality’s Lorraine Baines McFly Tannen, taking a deep breath. “Oak Park Cemetery?” I said doubtfully.

She nodded back, her eyes dull. “Since 1973.”

“Okay.” I inhaled again, let it out slowly. “I know where that is.” I headed for the stairs that I had seen Biff climb, guessing they led to the exit of the suite.

“Marty, wait!”

I turned back, impatient, wanting to go to the cemetery, needing to go to the cemetery, hoping to prove that this version of my mother had, for some reason, lied to me. Hoping to God that a gravestone for George McFly didn’t exist.

"If you're so determined to go to that godforsaken place tonight. . . " She was digging around behind the bar, making a racket. I bounced on the balls of my feet, ready to bolt. Then I heard a triumphant cry, and she rose, holding a small, black tube out toward me.

“It’s dark – you’ll need a flashlight,” Mom said.

**_END_ **

**Author's Note:**

> I am inferring in this story that Marty ran into his brother Dave outside Biff's Pleasure Paradise, basing that on a deleted scene (available on the BTTF II DVD), and so Marty sees first-hand how low his brother has fallen. In the deleted scene, Dave does ask Marty ". . . And since when are you and Mom on speaking terms again?" 
> 
> In the BTTF II movie novelization, this scene is a tad different: Dave tells Marty they should go have a drink (like in the movie's deleted scene), but then Marty says he can't drink alcohol, because he's underage. This prompts Dave to remind Marty that the drinking age is 14.
> 
> Since I only used the movie scenes (and not anything from Craig Shaw Gardner's novelization) to write this fic, I didn't give Marty the knowledge that, at 17, he can drink legally. So when his mother offers him a drink, he's confused and a little upset.


End file.
